sam_storyteller (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
sam_storyteller) wrote2005-07-18 10:26 am
sam_storyteller) wrote2005-07-18 10:26 am
Entry tags:
The Boxing Day Doctor Who Marathon; RPS, R-rated.
Title: The Boxing Day Doctor Who Marathon
Pairing: David Tennant/John Barrowman SHUT UP.
Rating: R for sex NO REALLY SHUT UP.
Notes: JEAN'S FAULT HER FAULT HER FAULT HER FAULT I have so much shame. All I can do is picture one of them finding this and the horrified expression on their face. JEAN'S FAULT, MR. BARROWMAN, I'M SO SORRY.
Notes, expanded: After some research and some fact-finding by the readers, I came back to this and rewrote it to more accurately reflect things like filming location and timing. If you've read this before and now it seems different, that's why. I haven't posted the old version anywhere but I do have a copy, if you prefer inaccuracy. :D
Summary: John Barrowman has a mid-life crisis. David Tennant has an unhealthy obsession. Both of them have Boxing Day off.
Warnings: Infidelity.
Also available at AO3.
The Boxing Day Doctor Who Marathon
It's been a rotten week to be David Tennant.
It's not that he dislikes playing the Doctor. He loves it with all his heart. The special effects, the cheese, the social commentary, the fans, it's all fantastic. He can't imagine why Eccleston gave it up.
Then again...
Everything that can go wrong has gone wrong, from the effects to the lighting in the TARDIS to discovering that Catherine bloody Tate, who he can't stand, is probably going to be the next Companion. And it's Christmas, and he's tired, and his family seems very far away.
So when the doorman of his Beeb housing building hands him a package as he walks in, he sighs and signs for it, imagining that it's a bunch of paperwork regarding his investments or a script or something from his agent. Except that there's no postage -- it's local -- and a small rubber stamp on the back of the thick padded envelope, a little thistle. It's a secret code thing, which is stupid because they're both grown men but they're also both Scots and it's a way to mark out the stuff like agent-paperwork from the really important stuff like letters from friends.
He sits down in his living room and tears the package open hungrily, pulling out a gaily wrapped gift and a crisp white envelope.
Because David is a good boy, he virtuously opens the envelope first.
David,
Just something to cheer you up round this time of the year. Found it on the internet and thought (fond, lecherous) thoughts of you.
I won't lie that it's a little bit of bribery too. I mean, how can you possibly pay me back for the laugh you're about to get? Except that the holiday's a little tense around here right now and I think Scott's going home for Christmas. So, if you've a few spare minutes for the Captain this holiday, have your people talk to my people, all right?
JB
David frowns, closes the card, and sets it aside. He's certain the package is a framed picture, but what could John have possibly found on the internet...
He almost double checks to see that nobody's looking, then rips into the present.
His first thought is absolute horror. It's an eight-by-ten in a lovely chestnut frame, and it's not that he's ashamed of being naked onstage, it's just that everyone and their mother (lovely thought) have passed around the old grainy photo of him from that Orton production, naked as a jaybird except for a constabulary helmet.
Then he notices he's not actually naked in this one.
Not quite.
Because there's a bright blue TARDIS pasted over his knob.
Yes, that's David Tennant.
If you created this image, please contact me so that I may credit you properly.
David leans back in the chair, letting the photo fall to the table, and laughs until he's sick and hiccupping and has to get a glass of water before he passes out. Only John Barrowman would send him something like this. Fond, lecherous thoughts indeed.
Then he picks up his mobile. John's not filming right now, he's in a Christmas pantomime -- and after navigating the box office and the stage door phone, David finally gets through.
"Hello?" John answers, sounding curious.
"Yeah, this is David Tennant's people, have I reached John Barrymore's people?" he asks.
"That's Barrowman, cow," John answers, laughing. "How are you, David Tennant's People?"
"Fine thanks. Mr. Tennant tells us he's just received your Christmas gift."
"Nicer than a fruit basket!"
"It's brilliant, John. Just what I needed today. Got your card, too."
He can picture John in his panto costume, big billowy white sleeves, stripey trousers, ridiculous peasant tunic, leaning against the wall, watching the fight rehearsal. "Yeah, about that -- " John says, then lapses into silence.
"You and Scotty in a fight, are you? Or were when you wrote?" David asks.
"It's complicated."
"Can't imagine his parents aren't at least willing to see you if you went home with him for the holiday."
"No, we've done before. But there's the show and...it was a flimsy excuse, forget it."
"I was going to say I was sorry you weren't staying after all, to be honest," David says. "My fam's all up north, I'm stuck in post-production finals. They were supposed to end last week."
"Welcome to television," John says.
"Not important. Anyway, when's the Panto of Doom let out?"
"End of January. Mondays and Tuesdays off -- other than Christmas. Then we're off Boxing Day and the day after."
"So, come over after the show on the twenty-fifth, stay over Boxing Day, you can kip on my couch."
"You're certain."
"Yeah. I'm off filming then, you'll keep me entertained."
"I do have a lot of really fresh gossip."
"Queen."
"Hag."
David laughs again. "See you on the twenty-fifth, then."
"Ta, David. See you."
John sounds ages better in the last ten seconds than in the whole rest of the phone call. David hangs up the mobile and basks in what he assumes is the warm feeling of a good deed well done.
***
Chrismas morning there's phone calls from and to his family and friends, plus a couple of nearly-late cards in the last post on Christmas eve. There's a brunch for everyone who's stayed on-set for Christmas, mostly crew. David long ago learned that it is imperative to be nice to your crew so he goes and sits with the boom guys and chucks bits of scone at the female PAs, flirting with them until they flirt back.
There's a call from John too, a voicemail on his mobile; in the background he can hear people singing Deck The Halls.
"Hi-ya, David, just making sure we're still on for Boxing Day. I'll be there this evening, probably by eight or nine. And if Scott calls I am not there."
David grins; he shouldn't be cheered that he's just been asked to lie to John's boyfriend, but he's sure it's just some stupid row and John'll have it all patched up by New Year's. He goes about his day with a lighter heart, not minding that he's wanted on set that afternoon for a sound check ("Seeing as how you're here and all, Mr. Tennant...") or that half his old mates from school have sent him emails with photos of their kids' Doctor Who Action Figures attached, mocking him ruthlessly.
Around eight o'clock he wanders downstairs to the lobby, thinking he'll meet John at the door and make sure he gets in all right. He spends a decent hour watching telly with the desk clerk, because John's not the kind of guy to show up on time and David was always ten minutes early to everything. The Doctor Who special is just ending when John's car pulls past, into the garage entrance, and David steps out to meet him. In the dim yellow lighting of the parking garage he looks awful -- pale and tired.
"You look great," he says.
"I look like I've been gnawed to death by two year olds," John replies.
"Well, that's how I meant it," David says, leading him to the lift.
"Ye fuck," John says. "You do look all right."
"Clean living and no Christmas pantos," David answers, as the lift beeps and the doors open. "This way."
"I remember," John says, following him down the hall.
"Home from home." David unlocks the door, and John sheds his coat, hanging it up before tossing a battered overnight bag down next to the couch. It feels like they're both about twenty again, like John's some pal from school who hitched up to see him for the weekend and couldn't afford a hotel. David's rather fond of people crashing on his sofa. Keeps him young.
He flicks the lights on and wanders into the kitchen area, watching John carefully.
"Something to drink?" he asks, as John collapses limply on the sofa, pushing at the heel of his left trainer with the toe of his right.
"I had some coffee before I left."
"Whiskey, then."
"You're a king, Tennant," John says, wriggling his other shoe off as David pours them each a small tumbler of extremely good whiskey. "Don't need to tell you I'm in hiding."
"I gathered as much from your message," David says, pointedly not asking why as he leans against the wall opposite the sofa. "Anyone know you're here?"
"You, me, the desk clerk..."
"He won't tell. You look knackered more than anything. D'you want to sleep?"
"It's nine o'clock, David!"
"All right, only asking. You said you had gossip."
John's eyes light up at this and he looks better; David pulls up a chair and rests his feet on the arm of the sofa as they catch up on friends, nemeses, politics, agents, casting, and the endless series of stories they both have to tell about filming. Some of them are pretty decent fare for talk shows, and some of them will never, ever see the light of day.
"So, I said to him, are you going to kiss me or not," John says, nursing his second drink. David hoots.
"What'd he say? What'd he say?"
"He said, Mr. Barrowman, I'll kiss you on set when we're supposed to but I don't think my girlfriend would approve unless I'm paid for it," John chokes out, sniggering. "Then fucking Gorman, who can't keep his mouth shut, giggles from behind the curtain and everyone starts laughing and Gareth turns this amazing shade of red..."
David's never really got to know most of the Torchwood folk, just sees them in passing on his way to the Who set, but he hears about them a lot from John, who has been just shy of "in trouble" with Scott over the delicious young Gareth. David understands the boy's very young and very talented with a bright future, but apparently it was a while before he relaxed. John likes to try and take him out of himself. David feels bad (but not too bad, to be honest) for the kid.
"Have you seen his girlfriend? Built like a boy. He'll be much happier when he's not frantically barricading the closet door, and I will be proud of him." John pauses. "If I don't chuck it all and move to Guam, mind you."
"What's in Guam?" David asks.
"What isn't in Guam? Lovely place."
"John," David says. "I haven't asked, and I won't ask..."
John tilts his head back, setting the drink down. "It's probably mid-life crisis."
"Oh, for Christ's sake."
"I'm sorry! It's just...there's all these people who want a piece of me but every time I do an interview or a guest spot or anything it's about being gay and all this banner carrying is exhausting. And -- you know we had to put Tegan down, and it's stupid because it's not like she was a person or anything, but I was upset anyway."
David opens his mouth to say something comforting about John's dead dog, but he has no idea what to say that wouldn't make him sound like a loon. Not that it matters, John's pouring it out now.
"I thought Scott was going to get me some kind of pathetic replacement so I said I wasn't ready to get another dog, I thought I was really clear about it, and last week he turns to me and says let's have a baby."
David stares at him. John stares back. Now he's really not sure what to say, so he blurts out the first thing that comes to his mind. "John, you can't afford that kind of weight gain."
John chuckles. "He wants to adopt a Chinese baby or African or something."
"You don't want kids?"
"Of course I want kids! I just don't want them right now! I want them either fifteen years ago when I had that kind of energy or ten years from now when I don't have to work too. It's no kind of life for a kid, you've seen what happens when you're filming with babies around."
David has to admit this is true. And besides, he's not the one staring down the barrel of the baby-gun.
"I just needed time, and he kept talking about it. I want...I want one day where I don't have to be me. How horrifying is that? My life is bloody great but all I want is one day where I'm not with someone and thinking about babies and the Big Gay Cultural Icon and worrying about being on set the next day and knowing my lines and just..."
John shrugs and tilts his head back again. David's heart goes out to him.
"All right," he says, and John closes his eyes.
"All right what?"
"All right, tomorrow we'll have a Being Someone Else day. It'll be great."
"Being Someone Else day," John repeats.
"Sure. We'll get all tarted up in disguises and go out and do shopping and ride the bus and things."
"I don't want to be in disguise."
"Fine, we'll stay in. Lots of popcorn and films and you can crank-call Gareth."
John inhales, exhales. His fingers twitch.
"That sounds wonderful," he says finally, and David is satisfied.
"Right then. You're all wound up. Try to sleep."
John leans forward, smirks at him, flips his legs up on the sofa and turns so that his head is pillowed on David's ankles, where they're still resting on the arm.
"G'night," he says, closing his eyes again. David snorts and wriggles, pulling away and letting John's head thump lightly on the arm. "Ow!"
"Here's a blanket. You're not getting my teddy bear. If you snore I'll smother you in your sleep."
He tosses the blanket and pillow to John, who mutters something as he dives under the thick quilt. It sounds like "couldn't ask for a nicer death", but David's not quite so vain as all that.
He sits up in his bedroom for a few more hours, reading a new screenplay his agent thinks he should do. He likes it, and they want David Tennant pretty badly. It's an exciting life. He wants to make the most of it.
David never wants to be anybody but David. He realises this is appallingly well-adjusted on many levels, but he can't help it. At least it means he can give John a bit of a sanctuary.
***
David is pretty sure John hasn't had any work done, which is why it really is obscene how young he looks. Especially asleep in the dim early-morning light, as David quietly makes himself a cup of tea and sneaks past the sofa, heading for the door. He's got a big enough hat and dark enough sunglasses that he can at least make a quick trip to Tesco unmolested. That was the big tip that Jason Isaacs gave him when they were talking about it on the Harry Potter set one day, idly chatting while trying to avoid the rugrats underfoot: big hat, dark sunglasses.
He buys crisps and popcorn, butter and cheese (which he needed anyway) and the brand of peanuts that John likes, because whether or not John is being himself he'll still be compulsive about what he eats. Not that David has room to talk, there are a lot of salad fixings in his fridge.
His mobile rings when he's checking out.
"A-yup?" he answers, as JBARR shows up on his caller ID.
John's voice on the other end sounds sleepy, and he hears ominous clankings in the background. "Where do you keep your bread?"
"Box next to the range, why?"
"Fried bread," John says. David looks at the peanuts in the bag and sighs. "Can I use your eggs?"
"Keep some warm for me."
"Where are you?"
"Just buying some food. Didn't reckon you'd be up for a while."
"Your sofa's good for sleeping. I might take it home with me."
"Oi! Hands off my furnishings!" David says, as he takes the bag and wanders out of the shop.
"Fine," John says, and David hears the click of the range going on. "Got any sage?"
"It's fried bread."
"For the eggs."
"Why would I have sage?"
"Ah, found it. Did you know you have a spice rack?"
"What kind of person are you? Just put some pepper in them, they'll be fine."
"Yeah, but they'll be better with sage. We need protein if we're going to be lounging all day. Talking of, did you get any videos?"
"Didn't think about it," David says. "Any ideas?"
"I'm easy."
"So I hear."
"Oh fuck you, Tennant."
"Up to me then, eh? I have one or two ideas. Meet me on the first floor, yeah?"
There's a hiss as the eggs hit the pan. "Why, is there a big-screen TV somewhere?"
"Nope. Russel's out of town, we're raiding his DVD library."
John laughs. "Twenty minutes. Bye, Dav."
"Bye."
John arrives when David's already jimmying at the remarkably cheap lock on Russell Davies' flat, and John is carrying a bowl with eggs in it and a slab of fried bread on top. David shoves the bread into his mouth as he slides the sliver of scrap wood back and forth against the bolt.
"Aren't you the superhero," John says, standing over him.
"I play one on telly," David says, around the bread. He takes a bite, sets it back on top of the eggs, leans back, and gives the door a solid jolt midway-up with his shoe. It swings open easily.
The flat isn't really somewhere Russel's ever lived, just an office where he can work quietly when he wants to get off-set for a while. The living room is filled with a huge desk covered in papers; he shifts a huge stack of script binders off a bench against the wall and sits down, inhaling the scrambled eggs. He'll admit they are good. John drifts around the room, examining the books on the shelves.
"His DVDs are all shite," he says, pointing to a row of them in one shelf.
"Those are," David agrees, finishing his eggs. He stands and pops open the glass cabinet-front on the shelf next to him; inside there are a handful of files, a few tattered Doctor Who novels, and a thick leatherbound CD wallet. He holds it up.
"Triumph."
"Oh, god, no," John says.
"In this wallet -- "
"David, you freak of nature -- "
"-- is every extant episode of Doctor Who -- "
" -- you utter bastard -- "
" -- both radio and television," David crowed.
"Seriously? Doctor Who? That's what you want to spend all day watching?" John asks. "It's your job. Don't you want a vacation?"
"Nope," David says smugly. "I'd do this job for free. I'd pay to be the Doctor."
John throws himself down in the spot David vacated and begins to laugh.
"Come on, John. Daleks! Cybermen! Romana! Tom Baaaaaker."
"I asked for this, didn't I?"
"You know you fancy Tom Baker."
"Do I balls!"
"Everyone fancies Tom Baker. Fifty years of mythology, John. Don't you think that's amazing?" David asks, uncertain now. John throws up his hands.
"Can we skip the first Doctor?" he asks.
"Just the regenration episode. Promise," David wheedles. And he gets his way, because secretly John loves Doctor Who. It's bred into him.
While David carefully re-locks the door, John only proves the point by opening the case holding the DVDs and thumbing through them. They're all labeled in some anonymous PA's handwriting. In the front there's a small booklet, an indexed episode guide.
"Bet Tom Baker was your favourite," John says, turning his head to study the caption on one disc as they wait for the lift.
"Nah. Everyone says that. Mine was Peter Davison."
"Which was he?"
"The one after Baker. Fifth Doctor. Brilliant writing," David answers, as the lift stops. "Snappy dresser, too. Grab the food. Baker must've been yours, though. He's the only one you'd have seen before moving to the states, yeah?"
John grins and shakes his head.
"Which one then?"
"Oh, I like the Tenth Doctor," John replies airily.
"Flattery gets you nowhere."
"He's so dreamy!" John continues in a high American falsetto, walking down the hall. "He's all sensitive and dark! And you know what they call David Tennant -- "
"Don't you start. Inside. I'm going to indoctrinate you," David says.
"Oh yes, let's," John replies, unpacking the groceries on the kitchen counter and opening the fridge to put the cheese away. "By the way, should I be worried? You have a lot of tequila in your fridge."
"Party, ages ago, someone made me take home the leftovers. Dunno what I'll do with it."
"Uh, margaritas," John says, as if this should be obvious.
"Not at nine in the morning, thanks." David opens the wallet and holds one of the DVDs up to the light, studying it. "All right. First doctor, regeneration." He slips the disc into the DVD player and switches the television on, flicking through the episodes stored there. "I'll give you fifty years of highlights."
John grins.
It's nice to have someone around who tolerates your geekery.
***
David was worried that John really would be bored by Doctor Who, but John seems to forget he's supposed to be cynical and grownup; after they watch the last of the William Hartnell episodes they actually backtrack a bit, then jump forward to the Second Doctor. John hardly moves from the sofa, eating peanuts out of the tin and only flicking them at David's head when he makes a smartarse remark or skips through an episode that looks interesting. By noon The Master has put in his first appearance, and John is howling with laughter.
"Oh my Christ," he gasps. "That's the Master? Simm must be mortified."
"Very important figure," David says.
"Dig that beard! So groovy," John crows.
"You should see him the next time round."
"Geek."
"Bigger geek!"
"Is it decent time for margaritas yet?" John asks, levering himself off the sofa.
"May as well. I'm not going anywhere today. Heavy drinking time once we hit Colin Baker."
John has located half a bottle of triple sec and the slightly elderly lemons David bought for a lemon-chicken dish that he never managed to cook; David jumps idly through the episode while John grumbles about a lack of proper rock salt and margarita glasses. He tunes out the muttering until a coffee mug is presented to him, full of a slushy and suspiciously cloudy liquid. But it is, after all, David's holiday too.
"Are you trying to get me liquored up?" he asks, tasting the drink. It's strong. It's almost ostentatious. Look at me, I'm tequila and you're drinking me at noon.
"Just trying to use it all up. No temptation," John says. He offers David a cherry.
"Fruity," David remarks. John rolls his eyes.
"I can tie a knot in a cherry stem with my tongue," John says. "Wanna see?"
"Would it shut you up?"
John laughs and resumes his place on the sofa. "All right. Forward ho. We're in for a lot of Tom Baker, aren't we."
"He was the Doctor for a long time."
"Still beat him out though, didn't you," John asks. "You won the popularity contest this year."
"Well, more people watch now. Only natural. If I can have a run like Tom Baker..." David smiles. John chews on a cherry and watches him. "I could do it forever."
"That's what's so wrong about you," John replies affectionately. "Let's be contrary."
"Contrary?"
"Right. Longest-running Doctor. Pick one episode. Then we're on to what's-his-name."
"Peter Davison," David says, exasperated.
"Him. You like him best anyway." John leers just a little. "David has a boycrush."
"He's only the reason I started acting at all," David answers, feeling oddly defensive. John sits back and pops another cherry in his mouth, washing it down with margarita.
"You're not making your case. Come on, superfan, one Tom Baker episode."
David taps the remote control against his lips, then picks up the DVD wallet. A good portion of it is Fourth Doctor. He checks the labels and pops one out of its sleeve.
"This one," he says, handing it to John. John looks down at it, studies the episodes listed in marker on the front. He glances at David and grins.
Welcome, Doctor.
What's going on? Don't you realise how dangerous it is to intercept a transmat beam?
Oh, come Doctor, not with our techniques...
***
Two hours later, when the entire story arc is completed, John is bundled in the blanket from the night before and David is never ever going to let him live this down.
"That wasn't as scary as I remember it being," he says casually.
"Fuck you, I'm not scared. I'm cold. You keep this place like an icebox," John says. He's still watching the credits roll.
"It's only television. If you look close you can see the wheels on the Daleks."
"I'm not letting you pick episodes anymore," John holds out his hand imperiously for the DVDs. David passes them over and John looks through them while David gets another margarita.
"So many people went before," he says, pouring. "You want another?"
"All right. Before what?"
David shrugs. "Before me. Nine other actors. More if you count the...oh, other universes and things. It's like playing Hamlet."
"About the same amount of death," John says absently. Onscreen, another Tom Baker episode is starting, but neither of them are paying attention.
"Good point." David passes him his glass. He settles on the sofa again, but because he's not a total bastard he sits right next to John, on top of a corner of the blanket, and grins at him. "You're rubbish at this science fiction thing. One little Dalek and you scream like a girl."
"Nobody screamed. Anyway, they killed Jack Harkness. I don't fuck around with Daleks."
"All right. Find anything interesting?" David asks, leaning over to see what page of the DVDs he's on. John flips it, but it's obvious his mind isn't on the DVDs.
"You know what scares me?" he says.
"I do now."
"No....they put them in boxes. They take away movement," John says. "They take away touch. Daleks don't scare me. Being one scares me."
David looks up at his face. There's real fear in John's eyes, and the whole situation is so absurd, but he can't make a joke. Because of the fear.
"And it's almost like us," John continues. "Pre-packaged, kept up in boxes. For god's sake, they sell our faces on dolls in the toy shops."
"It's not us, though. It's the Doctor and Captain Jack."
"I should have stuck with theatre. I don't want to be boxed up."
"You aren't," David says. John actually seems to see him for the first time since he started talking. John leans away, takes a deep slug of the margarita. "You called it on your terms. And if you hate it that much -- "
"I don't hate it. I like it. I love it. But so do the Daleks, probably."
"You're not pre-packaged entertainment, John," David says, and this is when John Barrowman moves forward and kisses him. On the mouth.
David leans into the kiss for a second, licking the taste of alcohol off John's lower lip. John makes an urgent little noise in his throat, which is what reminds David that not only is he kissing someone who is for all intents and purposes married, but he's kissing one of his best friends.
Later he'll be a little perplexed that neither of these objections include the fact that he's kissing a bloke, which he hasn't done offstage since an ill-concieved dare when he was fourteen, but for now his mind goes from blissfully blank to whirling with thoughts in an instant and he inhales (John moans) and leans back.
"Bugger," he says, as John's eyes fly open. "Oh, bugger, John, what are you doing?"
"What am I doing?" John says, as David rises and tries to put some space between himself and the tequila from John's mouth. "What are you doing? Fuck, what am I doing?"
"You kissed me!"
"I know!" John looks as startled as he is. "You kissed back!"
"Well, what was I supposed to do?" David replies. "Why'd you kiss me?"
"I don't know!"
"Bloody hell, Barrowman!"
"This is what comes of watching that damn show!"
"You cannot blame Doctor Who for this!"
"Shit, oh shit. Okay," John says, running his fingers through his hair. "This is okay. We'll, just, we'll undo it."
"Undo it?" David asks incredulously.
"Yeah. We'll make it mean nothing, because it did, right?" He doesn't wait for David to answer. "Okay. We'll prove it means nothing. Are you gay?"
David actually pauses to consider. "No," he says.
"Good! Good start. Are you attracted to me?"
David honestly isn't sure. After all, he did kiss back. And it wasn't horrible or anything. Not that he thought gay kissing was horrible, he assures himself. There's nothing wrong with it. But he's not gay, he's just said he's not. Unless he is. No, surely not. He likes women. He likes sex with women.
He looks at John, and wonders. Sex with John could be fantastic. They practically complete each others' sentences and John is familiar and it's hard not to flirt with John because it's always obvious he never means anything by it. John would know what to do and after all sex is sex, really, and if John makes him feel like this then yes, he must very well be attracted to him and is there anything wrong with that, he asks his subconscious. No.
John's eyes widen. David realises he's been staring at John's jaw, the way the muscles move under his skin.
"Well, you're -- you're damaged and attractive and my father would disapprove," David blurts. "Those are the first three things I look for in a date! Plus there's the, you know, lure."
"The lure." John's face closes down. "Of trying it out, huh? A walk on the other side?"
"Jesus! No! I meant you're taken! Everyone knows that people want what they can't have!"
They look at each other for a minute. A full minute. It's a long fucking time.
"But you're definitely not gay," John says.
"Well, I was more certain of that ten minutes ago."
"Yeah, but -- "
"No."
"Okay." John exhales. "Which means that it didn't mean anything, because if you're not gay then kissing is okay. It's like kissing a woman hello."
"All right," David says, though he suspects John's logic is not based in this reality.
"And you're not attached, so anything you do is okay."
David nods. He senses where this is going. Somewhere twisted and great.
"Because I do love Scott. But even if you were -- I'm not me today. So that's fine. Right?"
"Right."
"So..." John says slowly.
And then they lunge at each other, John rising off the sofa to meet David, catching his shirtsleeves to keep them from falling over together. David is certain their logic is flawed but he can't help lick across John's bottom lip again as they kiss, because it tastes good and because it makes John make that noise again. John's hands slide up from his arms to the back of his head, pinning him in place, not that he wants to move except to tilt just slightly for better access to John's mouth.
"David," John gasps under his breath.
"Yeah, I know," David says, trying to figure out where his hands even are because he thinks he might fall over in a minute. He finds them holding onto the front of John's shirt, forces himself to flatten his palms against John's chest so they can get closer. John gets one hand around his waist and pulls their hips together and it's so different but that's okay because it's also John.
He isn't sure how long they stand there in front of the sofa, kissing frantically. Eventually John exhales and steps back, touching his mouth with his fingers. David tries to look nonchalant, but it's very difficult.
"David," John says again.
"That was really great," David blurts.
"Thanks," John replies. David starts forward again but John catches him, one hand on his jaw, and he stops because he isn't sure he hasn't just fucked up John's whole life.
"How far does this go?" John asks. Their faces are very, very close.
"How far do you want it to go?" David answers. He should be frightened or confused, but he's not. John won't hurt him. He's far more likely to hurt John, who has much more to lose.
"Right now?" John says. "Far as you'll let me."
"Then let's not worry about me," David answers. John's eyes flick away, then back; he lifts David's hands and holds them at chest-height for a second before leaning backwards, falling back down onto the sofa, pulling David with him.
He's never been on this side of the equation before, straddling John's lap, steadied by John's hips. The girls he's been with, he wonders if this is how they felt. Feeling John's erection against his thigh. Feeling almost worshipped as John looks up at him.
"This is unfamiliar territory," he says, as John kisses his jaw.
"What, no school flings?" John asks against his skin. "Never once had it off with a boy in the showers?"
David moans. He can't help it. John's biting his throat. "N. Nooh."
"Ok?" John asks, nuzzling his oh that's his clavicle.
"Just -- you'll -- " David pulls John's head up, resting their foreheads together. John's hand slides up from hip to small of back, securing him. "You'll have to show me," he murmurs.
John's other hand is toying with the buttons on his shirt, popping them one at a time. David isn't sure he wants or should even expect an answer. His fingers are cool on David's skin.
"Fortunately I'm a good teacher," he says. David's so relieved he laughs, crazy and a little nervous. "Want me to stop?"
"No," David gasps.
"Tell me if you do."
"Ah -- all right."
He's managed the last button and he pulls David's shirt out of his trousers, easing it off his shoulders. David can't think, can barely react, and he's actually shocked when he moves closer to John to kiss him again and discovers that he's hard. His mind's been moving so fast that he'd almost forgotten he has a body at all.
"It's different for me too," John says, possibly misinterpreting the surprise on David's face. "It's been a while since I was with someone new..." He arches his hips just a little and David can't catch his breath. "Easy."
"So you said," David manages a grin. John moves again and this time they both moan.
"Not to spoil the foreplay," John says, and now he won't stop moving, which is actually very lovely, "but I'd like to get you into bed."
"Bed, brilliant," David agrees.
He finds himself stumbling backwards towards the bedroom, both of them bumping into the walls as he tries to get John's shirt off and John fumbles with his belt and refuses to stop kissing him.
At one point John presses him against the wall in the hallway and growls.
"You know," he says, letting David buck against his hips, "that I can appreciate -- mmh -- beauty without falling in love."
"Is that so?" David asks breathlessly.
"I'm trying to prove a point," John replies, tilting his head so that David can nuzzle his shoulder. "That while this is -- "
"An exceptional case," David suggests.
"Yes -- oh, god, your hand..." John is distracted by David's fingernails sliding slowly down the side of his chest.
"Go on," David suggests. John grasps his wrists and holds both of his hands against the wall. This is just slightly kinky, David decides.
"I'm not in love with you," John insists. David grins and kisses him.
"I didn't cherish the delusion you were."
"But the first time I saw you -- " John stops and catches his eyes. He still has David's wrists pinned to the wall. " -- I wanted you. I wanted this. Just the once. Just to know. This..." he kisses David. "And this..." one of his hands drops to tug David's trousers down, and his knuckles brush David's erection. "And this."
He slides his other hand around David's arse and pulls David forward into his body.
"Well," David says, swallowing. "You appear to have it."
John chuckles and walks him backwards, through the bedroom doorway. "Yeah, I do."
David manages to hook his thumbs in John's trousers and pull them down, and John sheds them easily as they tumble onto the bed.
It occurs to David that he is naked in bed with another man, and the only actually strange thing about this to him is that there's nobody filming him.
Well. And there's the fact that said other man is running his hands up David's body, settling them in his hair before kissing him, before sliding his own body along David's and beginning a slow, rhythmic movement against him.
"Feel good?" he asks, his shoulders jerking slightly. It does. It feels amazing, John's weight on top of him, John finding just the right place to push, just the right angle where their hips fit together and skin-on-skin dear god.
"Is this..." David groans. "Can you -- I mean, you're just -- "
"I'm not just anything," John replies, smiling. "And if you think I can't get off rutting against you, David -- "
"John -- "
"Then you're not enjoying this as much as I am."
"I am," David says hastily. "I am I am I am god please don't stop."
"You're amazing," John whispers, biting his earlobe. David clutches frantically at John's shoulders, his back, trying to find a purchase in reality, trying to get more, as much more as he can. Because John keeps moving faster and his breathing is so ragged and David's finding it hard to believe that it's him making John lose contr --
David throws his head back against the blankets because while he's been busy marveling at the way John breathes, John's got his hand between them and it's only taking one -- two sharp caressing strokes for them both to come, John silent, David with a choking sort of noise that he thinks he'll probably be embarrassed about later.
John's whole body is stiff and his head is bowed and for a moment David is horrified that he's done something wrong, but then John relaxes and thuds his head down on David's shoulder, threading his fingers in David's again, drawing them up so that he can turn his head to see them.
"Did all right then?" David inquires, when his mind catches up to the rest of him. John laughs and kisses his chest.
"When was the last time you had a fuck like that?" John asks. David realises that he is, indeed, fairly well-fucked at the moment. He can't say he minds.
"Haven't had one at all in months. Too busy," he says, giving in to the urge to stroke John's hair with his other hand. "Couldn't tell you when I had one like that before."
"The fantasy doesn't live up to the reality. Almost a first," John murmurs.
"You had fantasies about me?" David asks. He's oddly pleased by this.
"I'm only human," John replies. "Do you mind?"
"No! No, no. Like..." David swallows. "In the shower kind of fantasies?"
"Shower, bed, comfortable chair, long car trip..." John laughs. "You're an actor. You're the least insecure actor I've ever met. You know you're beautiful."
"Oh," David says, rather enjoying all this. "John..."
"Mm?"
"This isn't something I would do with anyone else. You ought to know that."
John pushes himself up on his elbows and kisses David, rather more gently than he has to date.
"Does that mean we can do it again?" he asks, grinning. David laughs and closes his eyes.
"Let me catch my breath," he says, giving John a shove. He's slick with sweat and sticky from, he suspects, being on the bottom. "This is a messy business."
"I could lick you clean."
"Towel," David says sternly. John rolls off the bed, half-shadowed, and David watches him as he walks unconcernedly to the bathroom, still naked. He thinks about touch, and about losing touch, and about how John moves, and how John loves to move so much that his biggest fear is being put in a box where he can't move anymore. And he, David, has made the fear go away.
When they're clean, John shoves him over on the bed and lies down, leaving more space between them than David would have thought. They stare at each other for several minutes, John looking like he's admiring something, David just trying to absorb it all.
"Do you want to sleep?" John asks.
"Not really," David replies. He grins. "Doctor Who's still on in the living room."
John laughs. "Tell the poor expatriate, when you were a teenager did you make out with your dates while it was on?"
"It's scary. You have to sit close," David answers.
"Wanna watch Doctor Who and make out?"
David should feel weirder about this, but he doesn't. He nods.
"Brilliant," John says, and David feels very warm indeed that he's made his friend happy.
***
It's probably just as well David's seen a lot of Doctor Who already; while there are times that evening when they both sit rapt with their eyes on the television, most of it is spent on the way John kisses the side of his neck and a lot of mumbling about inexperience being attractive in its own right and one very interesting lesson in oral sex and then there's the buttered popcorn. David's never going to be able to look at cinema popcorn the same way again after licking butter from John's fingers.
"Do you reckon," John says, and David tries to twist to look at him but can't, not from where he's lying on the sofa with his head on John's chest. "Do you reckon the Doctor ever does it?"
"Does it?" David asks, amused.
"Sure. Ever, I mean?"
"He has to have. He has children. Grandchildren."
"Genetic looms," John booms. David laughs.
"You did pick up the finer points, then," he remarks. On the television, Rose is shrieking on low-volume. John can't be paying much attention yet, or he'd realise what was about to happen.
"Finer points indeed," John says, nipping his ear. Just then, there's a familiar voice from the television. John groans in dismay.
"I say," David observes gleefully. "Who's the good-looking RAF captain with the fixation on Rose Tyler's arse?"
"Fast forward, he can't act for shit. Oh, god, look at his hair."
"Not true! He's my favourite bisexual time-traveling period-clothing fetishist," David says, amazed he can string that many words together. John snorts against his hair, ruffling it slightly, but from the speed of his breathing, John is also falling asleep.
"Brilliant day not to be me," he mumbles sleepily.
"Not too bad a day to be me," David replies. He thumbs the remote, leaping forward to the end of the disc, then the end of the episode.
It's not that he dislikes Chris Eccleston, nice enough guy, but David still can't believe that he, David Tennant, out of all the actors in Great Britain, gets to be the Doctor. So he loves this scene, though normally he won't watch his own work.
There it is, the yellow glow, Chris being just a little dramatic (well, it is his Who swan song, why shouldn't he) and...
Hallo. Oka -- mm. New teeth. That's weird. So where was I?
Oh yes. Barcelona!
David falls asleep to the closing credits.
When he wakes -- still on the sofa and with a severe cramp in his neck -- John is moving around the room in shadow, carefully folding clothing and packing it away in the single bag he brought. David pinches the bridge of his nose and props himself on one elbow.
"What time is it?" he asks.
"Coming on ten. I hate to have mindblowing gay sex and run, but some of us have pantos," John replies, zipping up his bag.
"And here I thought you were the settling-down type," David says. John snorts a laugh and bends to kiss him. "Are you allowed to do that? You're back to being you today."
"You're still not gay, right?"
David narrows his eyes. "Many professors of human sexuality might beg to differ. I do plan to continue to shag women exclusively, however."
"Such a waste," John mock-sighs. David sits up, raking his hair back out of his eyes with his fingers.
"Got time for breakfast?" he asks.
"It's waiting for me there." John slings his bag down and sits on the couch next to him, looking down at his hands. "Listen, I didn't want to jump ship like this -- "
"Art calls," David says, and understands. He really does; John was probably counting on him to get them up and dressed earlier than this. "It's all right, John."
"I -- this was great," John says. "And I don't mean just the infidelity and the snack food." David laughs. "I don't. You gave me one day off, David. That was all I wanted. I would have been happy if all we'd done was watch Doctor Who."
"Can I give you a bit of advice?" David says.
"Please."
"You're the big star now. You're a grownup. You don't have to do everything they tell you. You don't have to be the prepackaged advert if you don't want to. And Scott is not going to leave you if you tell him in no uncertain terms that you don't want a child as a replacement for your dead dog."
John looks sidelong at him. He's quiet, just watching David, who realises that considering John is fully dressed and he himself is naked under the blanket he is not the most imposing authority figure.
"You're brilliant, David, I hope you know that," he says.
"Well, someone has to be."
John laughs and stands and heads for the door, picking up his bag. David hitches the blanket around his hips and stands too as John puts one hand on the doorknob.
"One other thing," he says, feeling a little like John is going to find him going from "brilliant" to "sad and desperate and closeted" in the space of ten seconds.
"Oh yes?"
"Anytime you don't want to be you, John..." David rubs the back of his head, totally unaware of how to finish what sounds like a lame proposition even to him.
John looks up at him and walks back across the room to where he is and kisses him like he's seeing him for the first time.
"I'll keep that in mind," he says, and David doesn't open his eyes until the door closes again. At which point he smiles, and goes to try and locate some underthings.
***
"Good holiday, David?" Russel asks, when they're back in full filming swing.
"Oh yes, quiet but pleasant," David answers. "By the way, I have your DVD anthology."
Russel looks up from the script he's annotating. "Don't tell me you spent your entire holiday watching Doctor Who. That would make you even sadder than I am, and I spent my whole holiday writing it."
"Not the whole holiday, no," David replies. "Just portions. It's really very fun."
Russel just shakes his head and continues working.
"I did come up with one or two questions," David ventures. "Not that it's my place, I know I'm at the other end of the creative process on this..."
"Input always appreciated."
"I was just wondering if perhaps we could write Captain Jack back in at some point. Really fires up the plot, having him around, and the numbers are always good."
"Didn't I tell you? Damn -- I've got to get in touch with Barrowman's people. We're writing a three-episode arc into the fourth season for Captain Jack."
"Really? That's great. Great minds, eh?"
"Must be it. Listen, you're his friend, can you bring it up to him? Get him interested, that kind of thing?"
David grins. "I think I can have a quiet word."
"Brilliant, David. Now run along, great mind at work here."
Considering that two of the TARDIS's walls are coming apart at the seams, the sound equipment's fucked to hell, and the makeup on the aliens of the week has begun to peel weirdly, nobody can figure out why Tennant's in such a good mood.
The only theory anyone can come up with, which is generally dismissed as unlikely given he spent all holiday filming, is that maybe he got laid over Christmas.
END
Pairing: David Tennant/John Barrowman SHUT UP.
Rating: R for sex NO REALLY SHUT UP.
Notes: JEAN'S FAULT HER FAULT HER FAULT HER FAULT I have so much shame. All I can do is picture one of them finding this and the horrified expression on their face. JEAN'S FAULT, MR. BARROWMAN, I'M SO SORRY.
Notes, expanded: After some research and some fact-finding by the readers, I came back to this and rewrote it to more accurately reflect things like filming location and timing. If you've read this before and now it seems different, that's why. I haven't posted the old version anywhere but I do have a copy, if you prefer inaccuracy. :D
Summary: John Barrowman has a mid-life crisis. David Tennant has an unhealthy obsession. Both of them have Boxing Day off.
Warnings: Infidelity.
Also available at AO3.
The Boxing Day Doctor Who Marathon
It's been a rotten week to be David Tennant.
It's not that he dislikes playing the Doctor. He loves it with all his heart. The special effects, the cheese, the social commentary, the fans, it's all fantastic. He can't imagine why Eccleston gave it up.
Then again...
Everything that can go wrong has gone wrong, from the effects to the lighting in the TARDIS to discovering that Catherine bloody Tate, who he can't stand, is probably going to be the next Companion. And it's Christmas, and he's tired, and his family seems very far away.
So when the doorman of his Beeb housing building hands him a package as he walks in, he sighs and signs for it, imagining that it's a bunch of paperwork regarding his investments or a script or something from his agent. Except that there's no postage -- it's local -- and a small rubber stamp on the back of the thick padded envelope, a little thistle. It's a secret code thing, which is stupid because they're both grown men but they're also both Scots and it's a way to mark out the stuff like agent-paperwork from the really important stuff like letters from friends.
He sits down in his living room and tears the package open hungrily, pulling out a gaily wrapped gift and a crisp white envelope.
Because David is a good boy, he virtuously opens the envelope first.
David,
Just something to cheer you up round this time of the year. Found it on the internet and thought (fond, lecherous) thoughts of you.
I won't lie that it's a little bit of bribery too. I mean, how can you possibly pay me back for the laugh you're about to get? Except that the holiday's a little tense around here right now and I think Scott's going home for Christmas. So, if you've a few spare minutes for the Captain this holiday, have your people talk to my people, all right?
JB
David frowns, closes the card, and sets it aside. He's certain the package is a framed picture, but what could John have possibly found on the internet...
He almost double checks to see that nobody's looking, then rips into the present.
His first thought is absolute horror. It's an eight-by-ten in a lovely chestnut frame, and it's not that he's ashamed of being naked onstage, it's just that everyone and their mother (lovely thought) have passed around the old grainy photo of him from that Orton production, naked as a jaybird except for a constabulary helmet.
Then he notices he's not actually naked in this one.
Not quite.
Because there's a bright blue TARDIS pasted over his knob.
Yes, that's David Tennant.
If you created this image, please contact me so that I may credit you properly.
David leans back in the chair, letting the photo fall to the table, and laughs until he's sick and hiccupping and has to get a glass of water before he passes out. Only John Barrowman would send him something like this. Fond, lecherous thoughts indeed.
Then he picks up his mobile. John's not filming right now, he's in a Christmas pantomime -- and after navigating the box office and the stage door phone, David finally gets through.
"Hello?" John answers, sounding curious.
"Yeah, this is David Tennant's people, have I reached John Barrymore's people?" he asks.
"That's Barrowman, cow," John answers, laughing. "How are you, David Tennant's People?"
"Fine thanks. Mr. Tennant tells us he's just received your Christmas gift."
"Nicer than a fruit basket!"
"It's brilliant, John. Just what I needed today. Got your card, too."
He can picture John in his panto costume, big billowy white sleeves, stripey trousers, ridiculous peasant tunic, leaning against the wall, watching the fight rehearsal. "Yeah, about that -- " John says, then lapses into silence.
"You and Scotty in a fight, are you? Or were when you wrote?" David asks.
"It's complicated."
"Can't imagine his parents aren't at least willing to see you if you went home with him for the holiday."
"No, we've done before. But there's the show and...it was a flimsy excuse, forget it."
"I was going to say I was sorry you weren't staying after all, to be honest," David says. "My fam's all up north, I'm stuck in post-production finals. They were supposed to end last week."
"Welcome to television," John says.
"Not important. Anyway, when's the Panto of Doom let out?"
"End of January. Mondays and Tuesdays off -- other than Christmas. Then we're off Boxing Day and the day after."
"So, come over after the show on the twenty-fifth, stay over Boxing Day, you can kip on my couch."
"You're certain."
"Yeah. I'm off filming then, you'll keep me entertained."
"I do have a lot of really fresh gossip."
"Queen."
"Hag."
David laughs again. "See you on the twenty-fifth, then."
"Ta, David. See you."
John sounds ages better in the last ten seconds than in the whole rest of the phone call. David hangs up the mobile and basks in what he assumes is the warm feeling of a good deed well done.
***
Chrismas morning there's phone calls from and to his family and friends, plus a couple of nearly-late cards in the last post on Christmas eve. There's a brunch for everyone who's stayed on-set for Christmas, mostly crew. David long ago learned that it is imperative to be nice to your crew so he goes and sits with the boom guys and chucks bits of scone at the female PAs, flirting with them until they flirt back.
There's a call from John too, a voicemail on his mobile; in the background he can hear people singing Deck The Halls.
"Hi-ya, David, just making sure we're still on for Boxing Day. I'll be there this evening, probably by eight or nine. And if Scott calls I am not there."
David grins; he shouldn't be cheered that he's just been asked to lie to John's boyfriend, but he's sure it's just some stupid row and John'll have it all patched up by New Year's. He goes about his day with a lighter heart, not minding that he's wanted on set that afternoon for a sound check ("Seeing as how you're here and all, Mr. Tennant...") or that half his old mates from school have sent him emails with photos of their kids' Doctor Who Action Figures attached, mocking him ruthlessly.
Around eight o'clock he wanders downstairs to the lobby, thinking he'll meet John at the door and make sure he gets in all right. He spends a decent hour watching telly with the desk clerk, because John's not the kind of guy to show up on time and David was always ten minutes early to everything. The Doctor Who special is just ending when John's car pulls past, into the garage entrance, and David steps out to meet him. In the dim yellow lighting of the parking garage he looks awful -- pale and tired.
"You look great," he says.
"I look like I've been gnawed to death by two year olds," John replies.
"Well, that's how I meant it," David says, leading him to the lift.
"Ye fuck," John says. "You do look all right."
"Clean living and no Christmas pantos," David answers, as the lift beeps and the doors open. "This way."
"I remember," John says, following him down the hall.
"Home from home." David unlocks the door, and John sheds his coat, hanging it up before tossing a battered overnight bag down next to the couch. It feels like they're both about twenty again, like John's some pal from school who hitched up to see him for the weekend and couldn't afford a hotel. David's rather fond of people crashing on his sofa. Keeps him young.
He flicks the lights on and wanders into the kitchen area, watching John carefully.
"Something to drink?" he asks, as John collapses limply on the sofa, pushing at the heel of his left trainer with the toe of his right.
"I had some coffee before I left."
"Whiskey, then."
"You're a king, Tennant," John says, wriggling his other shoe off as David pours them each a small tumbler of extremely good whiskey. "Don't need to tell you I'm in hiding."
"I gathered as much from your message," David says, pointedly not asking why as he leans against the wall opposite the sofa. "Anyone know you're here?"
"You, me, the desk clerk..."
"He won't tell. You look knackered more than anything. D'you want to sleep?"
"It's nine o'clock, David!"
"All right, only asking. You said you had gossip."
John's eyes light up at this and he looks better; David pulls up a chair and rests his feet on the arm of the sofa as they catch up on friends, nemeses, politics, agents, casting, and the endless series of stories they both have to tell about filming. Some of them are pretty decent fare for talk shows, and some of them will never, ever see the light of day.
"So, I said to him, are you going to kiss me or not," John says, nursing his second drink. David hoots.
"What'd he say? What'd he say?"
"He said, Mr. Barrowman, I'll kiss you on set when we're supposed to but I don't think my girlfriend would approve unless I'm paid for it," John chokes out, sniggering. "Then fucking Gorman, who can't keep his mouth shut, giggles from behind the curtain and everyone starts laughing and Gareth turns this amazing shade of red..."
David's never really got to know most of the Torchwood folk, just sees them in passing on his way to the Who set, but he hears about them a lot from John, who has been just shy of "in trouble" with Scott over the delicious young Gareth. David understands the boy's very young and very talented with a bright future, but apparently it was a while before he relaxed. John likes to try and take him out of himself. David feels bad (but not too bad, to be honest) for the kid.
"Have you seen his girlfriend? Built like a boy. He'll be much happier when he's not frantically barricading the closet door, and I will be proud of him." John pauses. "If I don't chuck it all and move to Guam, mind you."
"What's in Guam?" David asks.
"What isn't in Guam? Lovely place."
"John," David says. "I haven't asked, and I won't ask..."
John tilts his head back, setting the drink down. "It's probably mid-life crisis."
"Oh, for Christ's sake."
"I'm sorry! It's just...there's all these people who want a piece of me but every time I do an interview or a guest spot or anything it's about being gay and all this banner carrying is exhausting. And -- you know we had to put Tegan down, and it's stupid because it's not like she was a person or anything, but I was upset anyway."
David opens his mouth to say something comforting about John's dead dog, but he has no idea what to say that wouldn't make him sound like a loon. Not that it matters, John's pouring it out now.
"I thought Scott was going to get me some kind of pathetic replacement so I said I wasn't ready to get another dog, I thought I was really clear about it, and last week he turns to me and says let's have a baby."
David stares at him. John stares back. Now he's really not sure what to say, so he blurts out the first thing that comes to his mind. "John, you can't afford that kind of weight gain."
John chuckles. "He wants to adopt a Chinese baby or African or something."
"You don't want kids?"
"Of course I want kids! I just don't want them right now! I want them either fifteen years ago when I had that kind of energy or ten years from now when I don't have to work too. It's no kind of life for a kid, you've seen what happens when you're filming with babies around."
David has to admit this is true. And besides, he's not the one staring down the barrel of the baby-gun.
"I just needed time, and he kept talking about it. I want...I want one day where I don't have to be me. How horrifying is that? My life is bloody great but all I want is one day where I'm not with someone and thinking about babies and the Big Gay Cultural Icon and worrying about being on set the next day and knowing my lines and just..."
John shrugs and tilts his head back again. David's heart goes out to him.
"All right," he says, and John closes his eyes.
"All right what?"
"All right, tomorrow we'll have a Being Someone Else day. It'll be great."
"Being Someone Else day," John repeats.
"Sure. We'll get all tarted up in disguises and go out and do shopping and ride the bus and things."
"I don't want to be in disguise."
"Fine, we'll stay in. Lots of popcorn and films and you can crank-call Gareth."
John inhales, exhales. His fingers twitch.
"That sounds wonderful," he says finally, and David is satisfied.
"Right then. You're all wound up. Try to sleep."
John leans forward, smirks at him, flips his legs up on the sofa and turns so that his head is pillowed on David's ankles, where they're still resting on the arm.
"G'night," he says, closing his eyes again. David snorts and wriggles, pulling away and letting John's head thump lightly on the arm. "Ow!"
"Here's a blanket. You're not getting my teddy bear. If you snore I'll smother you in your sleep."
He tosses the blanket and pillow to John, who mutters something as he dives under the thick quilt. It sounds like "couldn't ask for a nicer death", but David's not quite so vain as all that.
He sits up in his bedroom for a few more hours, reading a new screenplay his agent thinks he should do. He likes it, and they want David Tennant pretty badly. It's an exciting life. He wants to make the most of it.
David never wants to be anybody but David. He realises this is appallingly well-adjusted on many levels, but he can't help it. At least it means he can give John a bit of a sanctuary.
***
David is pretty sure John hasn't had any work done, which is why it really is obscene how young he looks. Especially asleep in the dim early-morning light, as David quietly makes himself a cup of tea and sneaks past the sofa, heading for the door. He's got a big enough hat and dark enough sunglasses that he can at least make a quick trip to Tesco unmolested. That was the big tip that Jason Isaacs gave him when they were talking about it on the Harry Potter set one day, idly chatting while trying to avoid the rugrats underfoot: big hat, dark sunglasses.
He buys crisps and popcorn, butter and cheese (which he needed anyway) and the brand of peanuts that John likes, because whether or not John is being himself he'll still be compulsive about what he eats. Not that David has room to talk, there are a lot of salad fixings in his fridge.
His mobile rings when he's checking out.
"A-yup?" he answers, as JBARR shows up on his caller ID.
John's voice on the other end sounds sleepy, and he hears ominous clankings in the background. "Where do you keep your bread?"
"Box next to the range, why?"
"Fried bread," John says. David looks at the peanuts in the bag and sighs. "Can I use your eggs?"
"Keep some warm for me."
"Where are you?"
"Just buying some food. Didn't reckon you'd be up for a while."
"Your sofa's good for sleeping. I might take it home with me."
"Oi! Hands off my furnishings!" David says, as he takes the bag and wanders out of the shop.
"Fine," John says, and David hears the click of the range going on. "Got any sage?"
"It's fried bread."
"For the eggs."
"Why would I have sage?"
"Ah, found it. Did you know you have a spice rack?"
"What kind of person are you? Just put some pepper in them, they'll be fine."
"Yeah, but they'll be better with sage. We need protein if we're going to be lounging all day. Talking of, did you get any videos?"
"Didn't think about it," David says. "Any ideas?"
"I'm easy."
"So I hear."
"Oh fuck you, Tennant."
"Up to me then, eh? I have one or two ideas. Meet me on the first floor, yeah?"
There's a hiss as the eggs hit the pan. "Why, is there a big-screen TV somewhere?"
"Nope. Russel's out of town, we're raiding his DVD library."
John laughs. "Twenty minutes. Bye, Dav."
"Bye."
John arrives when David's already jimmying at the remarkably cheap lock on Russell Davies' flat, and John is carrying a bowl with eggs in it and a slab of fried bread on top. David shoves the bread into his mouth as he slides the sliver of scrap wood back and forth against the bolt.
"Aren't you the superhero," John says, standing over him.
"I play one on telly," David says, around the bread. He takes a bite, sets it back on top of the eggs, leans back, and gives the door a solid jolt midway-up with his shoe. It swings open easily.
The flat isn't really somewhere Russel's ever lived, just an office where he can work quietly when he wants to get off-set for a while. The living room is filled with a huge desk covered in papers; he shifts a huge stack of script binders off a bench against the wall and sits down, inhaling the scrambled eggs. He'll admit they are good. John drifts around the room, examining the books on the shelves.
"His DVDs are all shite," he says, pointing to a row of them in one shelf.
"Those are," David agrees, finishing his eggs. He stands and pops open the glass cabinet-front on the shelf next to him; inside there are a handful of files, a few tattered Doctor Who novels, and a thick leatherbound CD wallet. He holds it up.
"Triumph."
"Oh, god, no," John says.
"In this wallet -- "
"David, you freak of nature -- "
"-- is every extant episode of Doctor Who -- "
" -- you utter bastard -- "
" -- both radio and television," David crowed.
"Seriously? Doctor Who? That's what you want to spend all day watching?" John asks. "It's your job. Don't you want a vacation?"
"Nope," David says smugly. "I'd do this job for free. I'd pay to be the Doctor."
John throws himself down in the spot David vacated and begins to laugh.
"Come on, John. Daleks! Cybermen! Romana! Tom Baaaaaker."
"I asked for this, didn't I?"
"You know you fancy Tom Baker."
"Do I balls!"
"Everyone fancies Tom Baker. Fifty years of mythology, John. Don't you think that's amazing?" David asks, uncertain now. John throws up his hands.
"Can we skip the first Doctor?" he asks.
"Just the regenration episode. Promise," David wheedles. And he gets his way, because secretly John loves Doctor Who. It's bred into him.
While David carefully re-locks the door, John only proves the point by opening the case holding the DVDs and thumbing through them. They're all labeled in some anonymous PA's handwriting. In the front there's a small booklet, an indexed episode guide.
"Bet Tom Baker was your favourite," John says, turning his head to study the caption on one disc as they wait for the lift.
"Nah. Everyone says that. Mine was Peter Davison."
"Which was he?"
"The one after Baker. Fifth Doctor. Brilliant writing," David answers, as the lift stops. "Snappy dresser, too. Grab the food. Baker must've been yours, though. He's the only one you'd have seen before moving to the states, yeah?"
John grins and shakes his head.
"Which one then?"
"Oh, I like the Tenth Doctor," John replies airily.
"Flattery gets you nowhere."
"He's so dreamy!" John continues in a high American falsetto, walking down the hall. "He's all sensitive and dark! And you know what they call David Tennant -- "
"Don't you start. Inside. I'm going to indoctrinate you," David says.
"Oh yes, let's," John replies, unpacking the groceries on the kitchen counter and opening the fridge to put the cheese away. "By the way, should I be worried? You have a lot of tequila in your fridge."
"Party, ages ago, someone made me take home the leftovers. Dunno what I'll do with it."
"Uh, margaritas," John says, as if this should be obvious.
"Not at nine in the morning, thanks." David opens the wallet and holds one of the DVDs up to the light, studying it. "All right. First doctor, regeneration." He slips the disc into the DVD player and switches the television on, flicking through the episodes stored there. "I'll give you fifty years of highlights."
John grins.
It's nice to have someone around who tolerates your geekery.
***
David was worried that John really would be bored by Doctor Who, but John seems to forget he's supposed to be cynical and grownup; after they watch the last of the William Hartnell episodes they actually backtrack a bit, then jump forward to the Second Doctor. John hardly moves from the sofa, eating peanuts out of the tin and only flicking them at David's head when he makes a smartarse remark or skips through an episode that looks interesting. By noon The Master has put in his first appearance, and John is howling with laughter.
"Oh my Christ," he gasps. "That's the Master? Simm must be mortified."
"Very important figure," David says.
"Dig that beard! So groovy," John crows.
"You should see him the next time round."
"Geek."
"Bigger geek!"
"Is it decent time for margaritas yet?" John asks, levering himself off the sofa.
"May as well. I'm not going anywhere today. Heavy drinking time once we hit Colin Baker."
John has located half a bottle of triple sec and the slightly elderly lemons David bought for a lemon-chicken dish that he never managed to cook; David jumps idly through the episode while John grumbles about a lack of proper rock salt and margarita glasses. He tunes out the muttering until a coffee mug is presented to him, full of a slushy and suspiciously cloudy liquid. But it is, after all, David's holiday too.
"Are you trying to get me liquored up?" he asks, tasting the drink. It's strong. It's almost ostentatious. Look at me, I'm tequila and you're drinking me at noon.
"Just trying to use it all up. No temptation," John says. He offers David a cherry.
"Fruity," David remarks. John rolls his eyes.
"I can tie a knot in a cherry stem with my tongue," John says. "Wanna see?"
"Would it shut you up?"
John laughs and resumes his place on the sofa. "All right. Forward ho. We're in for a lot of Tom Baker, aren't we."
"He was the Doctor for a long time."
"Still beat him out though, didn't you," John asks. "You won the popularity contest this year."
"Well, more people watch now. Only natural. If I can have a run like Tom Baker..." David smiles. John chews on a cherry and watches him. "I could do it forever."
"That's what's so wrong about you," John replies affectionately. "Let's be contrary."
"Contrary?"
"Right. Longest-running Doctor. Pick one episode. Then we're on to what's-his-name."
"Peter Davison," David says, exasperated.
"Him. You like him best anyway." John leers just a little. "David has a boycrush."
"He's only the reason I started acting at all," David answers, feeling oddly defensive. John sits back and pops another cherry in his mouth, washing it down with margarita.
"You're not making your case. Come on, superfan, one Tom Baker episode."
David taps the remote control against his lips, then picks up the DVD wallet. A good portion of it is Fourth Doctor. He checks the labels and pops one out of its sleeve.
"This one," he says, handing it to John. John looks down at it, studies the episodes listed in marker on the front. He glances at David and grins.
Welcome, Doctor.
What's going on? Don't you realise how dangerous it is to intercept a transmat beam?
Oh, come Doctor, not with our techniques...
***
Two hours later, when the entire story arc is completed, John is bundled in the blanket from the night before and David is never ever going to let him live this down.
"That wasn't as scary as I remember it being," he says casually.
"Fuck you, I'm not scared. I'm cold. You keep this place like an icebox," John says. He's still watching the credits roll.
"It's only television. If you look close you can see the wheels on the Daleks."
"I'm not letting you pick episodes anymore," John holds out his hand imperiously for the DVDs. David passes them over and John looks through them while David gets another margarita.
"So many people went before," he says, pouring. "You want another?"
"All right. Before what?"
David shrugs. "Before me. Nine other actors. More if you count the...oh, other universes and things. It's like playing Hamlet."
"About the same amount of death," John says absently. Onscreen, another Tom Baker episode is starting, but neither of them are paying attention.
"Good point." David passes him his glass. He settles on the sofa again, but because he's not a total bastard he sits right next to John, on top of a corner of the blanket, and grins at him. "You're rubbish at this science fiction thing. One little Dalek and you scream like a girl."
"Nobody screamed. Anyway, they killed Jack Harkness. I don't fuck around with Daleks."
"All right. Find anything interesting?" David asks, leaning over to see what page of the DVDs he's on. John flips it, but it's obvious his mind isn't on the DVDs.
"You know what scares me?" he says.
"I do now."
"No....they put them in boxes. They take away movement," John says. "They take away touch. Daleks don't scare me. Being one scares me."
David looks up at his face. There's real fear in John's eyes, and the whole situation is so absurd, but he can't make a joke. Because of the fear.
"And it's almost like us," John continues. "Pre-packaged, kept up in boxes. For god's sake, they sell our faces on dolls in the toy shops."
"It's not us, though. It's the Doctor and Captain Jack."
"I should have stuck with theatre. I don't want to be boxed up."
"You aren't," David says. John actually seems to see him for the first time since he started talking. John leans away, takes a deep slug of the margarita. "You called it on your terms. And if you hate it that much -- "
"I don't hate it. I like it. I love it. But so do the Daleks, probably."
"You're not pre-packaged entertainment, John," David says, and this is when John Barrowman moves forward and kisses him. On the mouth.
David leans into the kiss for a second, licking the taste of alcohol off John's lower lip. John makes an urgent little noise in his throat, which is what reminds David that not only is he kissing someone who is for all intents and purposes married, but he's kissing one of his best friends.
Later he'll be a little perplexed that neither of these objections include the fact that he's kissing a bloke, which he hasn't done offstage since an ill-concieved dare when he was fourteen, but for now his mind goes from blissfully blank to whirling with thoughts in an instant and he inhales (John moans) and leans back.
"Bugger," he says, as John's eyes fly open. "Oh, bugger, John, what are you doing?"
"What am I doing?" John says, as David rises and tries to put some space between himself and the tequila from John's mouth. "What are you doing? Fuck, what am I doing?"
"You kissed me!"
"I know!" John looks as startled as he is. "You kissed back!"
"Well, what was I supposed to do?" David replies. "Why'd you kiss me?"
"I don't know!"
"Bloody hell, Barrowman!"
"This is what comes of watching that damn show!"
"You cannot blame Doctor Who for this!"
"Shit, oh shit. Okay," John says, running his fingers through his hair. "This is okay. We'll, just, we'll undo it."
"Undo it?" David asks incredulously.
"Yeah. We'll make it mean nothing, because it did, right?" He doesn't wait for David to answer. "Okay. We'll prove it means nothing. Are you gay?"
David actually pauses to consider. "No," he says.
"Good! Good start. Are you attracted to me?"
David honestly isn't sure. After all, he did kiss back. And it wasn't horrible or anything. Not that he thought gay kissing was horrible, he assures himself. There's nothing wrong with it. But he's not gay, he's just said he's not. Unless he is. No, surely not. He likes women. He likes sex with women.
He looks at John, and wonders. Sex with John could be fantastic. They practically complete each others' sentences and John is familiar and it's hard not to flirt with John because it's always obvious he never means anything by it. John would know what to do and after all sex is sex, really, and if John makes him feel like this then yes, he must very well be attracted to him and is there anything wrong with that, he asks his subconscious. No.
John's eyes widen. David realises he's been staring at John's jaw, the way the muscles move under his skin.
"Well, you're -- you're damaged and attractive and my father would disapprove," David blurts. "Those are the first three things I look for in a date! Plus there's the, you know, lure."
"The lure." John's face closes down. "Of trying it out, huh? A walk on the other side?"
"Jesus! No! I meant you're taken! Everyone knows that people want what they can't have!"
They look at each other for a minute. A full minute. It's a long fucking time.
"But you're definitely not gay," John says.
"Well, I was more certain of that ten minutes ago."
"Yeah, but -- "
"No."
"Okay." John exhales. "Which means that it didn't mean anything, because if you're not gay then kissing is okay. It's like kissing a woman hello."
"All right," David says, though he suspects John's logic is not based in this reality.
"And you're not attached, so anything you do is okay."
David nods. He senses where this is going. Somewhere twisted and great.
"Because I do love Scott. But even if you were -- I'm not me today. So that's fine. Right?"
"Right."
"So..." John says slowly.
And then they lunge at each other, John rising off the sofa to meet David, catching his shirtsleeves to keep them from falling over together. David is certain their logic is flawed but he can't help lick across John's bottom lip again as they kiss, because it tastes good and because it makes John make that noise again. John's hands slide up from his arms to the back of his head, pinning him in place, not that he wants to move except to tilt just slightly for better access to John's mouth.
"David," John gasps under his breath.
"Yeah, I know," David says, trying to figure out where his hands even are because he thinks he might fall over in a minute. He finds them holding onto the front of John's shirt, forces himself to flatten his palms against John's chest so they can get closer. John gets one hand around his waist and pulls their hips together and it's so different but that's okay because it's also John.
He isn't sure how long they stand there in front of the sofa, kissing frantically. Eventually John exhales and steps back, touching his mouth with his fingers. David tries to look nonchalant, but it's very difficult.
"David," John says again.
"That was really great," David blurts.
"Thanks," John replies. David starts forward again but John catches him, one hand on his jaw, and he stops because he isn't sure he hasn't just fucked up John's whole life.
"How far does this go?" John asks. Their faces are very, very close.
"How far do you want it to go?" David answers. He should be frightened or confused, but he's not. John won't hurt him. He's far more likely to hurt John, who has much more to lose.
"Right now?" John says. "Far as you'll let me."
"Then let's not worry about me," David answers. John's eyes flick away, then back; he lifts David's hands and holds them at chest-height for a second before leaning backwards, falling back down onto the sofa, pulling David with him.
He's never been on this side of the equation before, straddling John's lap, steadied by John's hips. The girls he's been with, he wonders if this is how they felt. Feeling John's erection against his thigh. Feeling almost worshipped as John looks up at him.
"This is unfamiliar territory," he says, as John kisses his jaw.
"What, no school flings?" John asks against his skin. "Never once had it off with a boy in the showers?"
David moans. He can't help it. John's biting his throat. "N. Nooh."
"Ok?" John asks, nuzzling his oh that's his clavicle.
"Just -- you'll -- " David pulls John's head up, resting their foreheads together. John's hand slides up from hip to small of back, securing him. "You'll have to show me," he murmurs.
John's other hand is toying with the buttons on his shirt, popping them one at a time. David isn't sure he wants or should even expect an answer. His fingers are cool on David's skin.
"Fortunately I'm a good teacher," he says. David's so relieved he laughs, crazy and a little nervous. "Want me to stop?"
"No," David gasps.
"Tell me if you do."
"Ah -- all right."
He's managed the last button and he pulls David's shirt out of his trousers, easing it off his shoulders. David can't think, can barely react, and he's actually shocked when he moves closer to John to kiss him again and discovers that he's hard. His mind's been moving so fast that he'd almost forgotten he has a body at all.
"It's different for me too," John says, possibly misinterpreting the surprise on David's face. "It's been a while since I was with someone new..." He arches his hips just a little and David can't catch his breath. "Easy."
"So you said," David manages a grin. John moves again and this time they both moan.
"Not to spoil the foreplay," John says, and now he won't stop moving, which is actually very lovely, "but I'd like to get you into bed."
"Bed, brilliant," David agrees.
He finds himself stumbling backwards towards the bedroom, both of them bumping into the walls as he tries to get John's shirt off and John fumbles with his belt and refuses to stop kissing him.
At one point John presses him against the wall in the hallway and growls.
"You know," he says, letting David buck against his hips, "that I can appreciate -- mmh -- beauty without falling in love."
"Is that so?" David asks breathlessly.
"I'm trying to prove a point," John replies, tilting his head so that David can nuzzle his shoulder. "That while this is -- "
"An exceptional case," David suggests.
"Yes -- oh, god, your hand..." John is distracted by David's fingernails sliding slowly down the side of his chest.
"Go on," David suggests. John grasps his wrists and holds both of his hands against the wall. This is just slightly kinky, David decides.
"I'm not in love with you," John insists. David grins and kisses him.
"I didn't cherish the delusion you were."
"But the first time I saw you -- " John stops and catches his eyes. He still has David's wrists pinned to the wall. " -- I wanted you. I wanted this. Just the once. Just to know. This..." he kisses David. "And this..." one of his hands drops to tug David's trousers down, and his knuckles brush David's erection. "And this."
He slides his other hand around David's arse and pulls David forward into his body.
"Well," David says, swallowing. "You appear to have it."
John chuckles and walks him backwards, through the bedroom doorway. "Yeah, I do."
David manages to hook his thumbs in John's trousers and pull them down, and John sheds them easily as they tumble onto the bed.
It occurs to David that he is naked in bed with another man, and the only actually strange thing about this to him is that there's nobody filming him.
Well. And there's the fact that said other man is running his hands up David's body, settling them in his hair before kissing him, before sliding his own body along David's and beginning a slow, rhythmic movement against him.
"Feel good?" he asks, his shoulders jerking slightly. It does. It feels amazing, John's weight on top of him, John finding just the right place to push, just the right angle where their hips fit together and skin-on-skin dear god.
"Is this..." David groans. "Can you -- I mean, you're just -- "
"I'm not just anything," John replies, smiling. "And if you think I can't get off rutting against you, David -- "
"John -- "
"Then you're not enjoying this as much as I am."
"I am," David says hastily. "I am I am I am god please don't stop."
"You're amazing," John whispers, biting his earlobe. David clutches frantically at John's shoulders, his back, trying to find a purchase in reality, trying to get more, as much more as he can. Because John keeps moving faster and his breathing is so ragged and David's finding it hard to believe that it's him making John lose contr --
David throws his head back against the blankets because while he's been busy marveling at the way John breathes, John's got his hand between them and it's only taking one -- two sharp caressing strokes for them both to come, John silent, David with a choking sort of noise that he thinks he'll probably be embarrassed about later.
John's whole body is stiff and his head is bowed and for a moment David is horrified that he's done something wrong, but then John relaxes and thuds his head down on David's shoulder, threading his fingers in David's again, drawing them up so that he can turn his head to see them.
"Did all right then?" David inquires, when his mind catches up to the rest of him. John laughs and kisses his chest.
"When was the last time you had a fuck like that?" John asks. David realises that he is, indeed, fairly well-fucked at the moment. He can't say he minds.
"Haven't had one at all in months. Too busy," he says, giving in to the urge to stroke John's hair with his other hand. "Couldn't tell you when I had one like that before."
"The fantasy doesn't live up to the reality. Almost a first," John murmurs.
"You had fantasies about me?" David asks. He's oddly pleased by this.
"I'm only human," John replies. "Do you mind?"
"No! No, no. Like..." David swallows. "In the shower kind of fantasies?"
"Shower, bed, comfortable chair, long car trip..." John laughs. "You're an actor. You're the least insecure actor I've ever met. You know you're beautiful."
"Oh," David says, rather enjoying all this. "John..."
"Mm?"
"This isn't something I would do with anyone else. You ought to know that."
John pushes himself up on his elbows and kisses David, rather more gently than he has to date.
"Does that mean we can do it again?" he asks, grinning. David laughs and closes his eyes.
"Let me catch my breath," he says, giving John a shove. He's slick with sweat and sticky from, he suspects, being on the bottom. "This is a messy business."
"I could lick you clean."
"Towel," David says sternly. John rolls off the bed, half-shadowed, and David watches him as he walks unconcernedly to the bathroom, still naked. He thinks about touch, and about losing touch, and about how John moves, and how John loves to move so much that his biggest fear is being put in a box where he can't move anymore. And he, David, has made the fear go away.
When they're clean, John shoves him over on the bed and lies down, leaving more space between them than David would have thought. They stare at each other for several minutes, John looking like he's admiring something, David just trying to absorb it all.
"Do you want to sleep?" John asks.
"Not really," David replies. He grins. "Doctor Who's still on in the living room."
John laughs. "Tell the poor expatriate, when you were a teenager did you make out with your dates while it was on?"
"It's scary. You have to sit close," David answers.
"Wanna watch Doctor Who and make out?"
David should feel weirder about this, but he doesn't. He nods.
"Brilliant," John says, and David feels very warm indeed that he's made his friend happy.
***
It's probably just as well David's seen a lot of Doctor Who already; while there are times that evening when they both sit rapt with their eyes on the television, most of it is spent on the way John kisses the side of his neck and a lot of mumbling about inexperience being attractive in its own right and one very interesting lesson in oral sex and then there's the buttered popcorn. David's never going to be able to look at cinema popcorn the same way again after licking butter from John's fingers.
"Do you reckon," John says, and David tries to twist to look at him but can't, not from where he's lying on the sofa with his head on John's chest. "Do you reckon the Doctor ever does it?"
"Does it?" David asks, amused.
"Sure. Ever, I mean?"
"He has to have. He has children. Grandchildren."
"Genetic looms," John booms. David laughs.
"You did pick up the finer points, then," he remarks. On the television, Rose is shrieking on low-volume. John can't be paying much attention yet, or he'd realise what was about to happen.
"Finer points indeed," John says, nipping his ear. Just then, there's a familiar voice from the television. John groans in dismay.
"I say," David observes gleefully. "Who's the good-looking RAF captain with the fixation on Rose Tyler's arse?"
"Fast forward, he can't act for shit. Oh, god, look at his hair."
"Not true! He's my favourite bisexual time-traveling period-clothing fetishist," David says, amazed he can string that many words together. John snorts against his hair, ruffling it slightly, but from the speed of his breathing, John is also falling asleep.
"Brilliant day not to be me," he mumbles sleepily.
"Not too bad a day to be me," David replies. He thumbs the remote, leaping forward to the end of the disc, then the end of the episode.
It's not that he dislikes Chris Eccleston, nice enough guy, but David still can't believe that he, David Tennant, out of all the actors in Great Britain, gets to be the Doctor. So he loves this scene, though normally he won't watch his own work.
There it is, the yellow glow, Chris being just a little dramatic (well, it is his Who swan song, why shouldn't he) and...
Hallo. Oka -- mm. New teeth. That's weird. So where was I?
Oh yes. Barcelona!
David falls asleep to the closing credits.
When he wakes -- still on the sofa and with a severe cramp in his neck -- John is moving around the room in shadow, carefully folding clothing and packing it away in the single bag he brought. David pinches the bridge of his nose and props himself on one elbow.
"What time is it?" he asks.
"Coming on ten. I hate to have mindblowing gay sex and run, but some of us have pantos," John replies, zipping up his bag.
"And here I thought you were the settling-down type," David says. John snorts a laugh and bends to kiss him. "Are you allowed to do that? You're back to being you today."
"You're still not gay, right?"
David narrows his eyes. "Many professors of human sexuality might beg to differ. I do plan to continue to shag women exclusively, however."
"Such a waste," John mock-sighs. David sits up, raking his hair back out of his eyes with his fingers.
"Got time for breakfast?" he asks.
"It's waiting for me there." John slings his bag down and sits on the couch next to him, looking down at his hands. "Listen, I didn't want to jump ship like this -- "
"Art calls," David says, and understands. He really does; John was probably counting on him to get them up and dressed earlier than this. "It's all right, John."
"I -- this was great," John says. "And I don't mean just the infidelity and the snack food." David laughs. "I don't. You gave me one day off, David. That was all I wanted. I would have been happy if all we'd done was watch Doctor Who."
"Can I give you a bit of advice?" David says.
"Please."
"You're the big star now. You're a grownup. You don't have to do everything they tell you. You don't have to be the prepackaged advert if you don't want to. And Scott is not going to leave you if you tell him in no uncertain terms that you don't want a child as a replacement for your dead dog."
John looks sidelong at him. He's quiet, just watching David, who realises that considering John is fully dressed and he himself is naked under the blanket he is not the most imposing authority figure.
"You're brilliant, David, I hope you know that," he says.
"Well, someone has to be."
John laughs and stands and heads for the door, picking up his bag. David hitches the blanket around his hips and stands too as John puts one hand on the doorknob.
"One other thing," he says, feeling a little like John is going to find him going from "brilliant" to "sad and desperate and closeted" in the space of ten seconds.
"Oh yes?"
"Anytime you don't want to be you, John..." David rubs the back of his head, totally unaware of how to finish what sounds like a lame proposition even to him.
John looks up at him and walks back across the room to where he is and kisses him like he's seeing him for the first time.
"I'll keep that in mind," he says, and David doesn't open his eyes until the door closes again. At which point he smiles, and goes to try and locate some underthings.
***
"Good holiday, David?" Russel asks, when they're back in full filming swing.
"Oh yes, quiet but pleasant," David answers. "By the way, I have your DVD anthology."
Russel looks up from the script he's annotating. "Don't tell me you spent your entire holiday watching Doctor Who. That would make you even sadder than I am, and I spent my whole holiday writing it."
"Not the whole holiday, no," David replies. "Just portions. It's really very fun."
Russel just shakes his head and continues working.
"I did come up with one or two questions," David ventures. "Not that it's my place, I know I'm at the other end of the creative process on this..."
"Input always appreciated."
"I was just wondering if perhaps we could write Captain Jack back in at some point. Really fires up the plot, having him around, and the numbers are always good."
"Didn't I tell you? Damn -- I've got to get in touch with Barrowman's people. We're writing a three-episode arc into the fourth season for Captain Jack."
"Really? That's great. Great minds, eh?"
"Must be it. Listen, you're his friend, can you bring it up to him? Get him interested, that kind of thing?"
David grins. "I think I can have a quiet word."
"Brilliant, David. Now run along, great mind at work here."
Considering that two of the TARDIS's walls are coming apart at the seams, the sound equipment's fucked to hell, and the makeup on the aliens of the week has begun to peel weirdly, nobody can figure out why Tennant's in such a good mood.
The only theory anyone can come up with, which is generally dismissed as unlikely given he spent all holiday filming, is that maybe he got laid over Christmas.
END
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I read it. I admit it. I'm usually completely against RPS, but... *sigh*
Like I said: EVIL! ;)